Tragedy is not inevitable when art（not Art） and politics happen in real life.
A winter book bought in the very beginning of the Spring and read in the beginning of Summer.
Green Bay has the most creepy museum I've ever been, in the early lamented March, grey sky and dying nature, though the smell of Spring is right by the corner, it is still impossible to get cheerful enough to act fearlessly.
He told me "Yes," then he handed me the book, "but only in hardcover."
"That's perfect." I smiled and took it, "I've been looking for it around the lake, and this is my last stop before going back."
This book is the end of the winter, the beginning of Spring that leads to this burning summer.
Art goes back to the store, he goes back to the library, he goes back to Shakespears, but he failed to go back to Lux.
This book is not about politics, not about art or literature, not about families or love. It is about the most subtle interactions could possibly exist between one and another, about a singularity point being illustrated as the castle house in Cornwall, about how the swirls of relationships devouring all of us, about sudden appearance and sudden vinishing.
This book didn't touch as deeply as Autumn had done while I was reading it. It's been a month since I finished it, more and more, I start to feel the ripples is caused on the surface of my heart--sweet, but essentially bitter, gradually forces me to take a retrospect on my gains and losses. Like all of Ali's stories, this one calls up a longlasting enormous echo about the past. In front of her words, even the present shows less meaning.